Dignity vanishes in a sea of pink packing peanuts

It all started several months ago when I - in an apparent mid-life crisis - decided I wanted an old-fashioned toy petal car. So I went on eBay, found three and placed bids.

By Dave SchlenkerColumnist

Someone in Oklahoma hates me.I am certain of it. This mystery human continues to torment us with a plague of pink packing peanuts as plentiful and terrifying as Biblical frogs.It all started several months ago when I — in an apparent mid-life crisis — decided I wanted an old-fashioned toy petal car. So I went on eBay, found three and placed bids; in my eBay experience, I am always outbid, so I figured I would win one if any.But karma thumped me in the rump. I won all three eBay auctions.One of the sellers lives in rural Oklahoma and, weeks after the sale, told me the car had been dropped off at a pack-and-ship store. When I called to arrange payment, the pack-and-ship manager told me, "Yep. There's a car here. Been here for days. It's kinda big. Guess we'll have to build a box."So, uh, they built a box.Then it arrived.I will do my best to describe the horrors that evolved that night. The box itself was a collection of tattered cardboard panels taped — and taped and taped — together. There were at least two holes in the box, with foam packing peanuts bulging out like abdominal hernias.The box-like creature was nearly 5 feet long (the car itself was a yard long at best). We just stared at it, not knowing where to start. Opening it in its horizontal, casket-like state was impossible due to the tape layers and unstable sides. Cut in the wrong place, and this baby would blow sky high.After much examination, we decided to stand the box up vertically and open it from the top, where the cardboard flesh looked healthiest. It opened nicely, but inside was a massive amount of foam packing peanuts. This box was the clown car of packing peanuts. A giraffe could have suffocated in there.The car was not visible, however, and I knew what needed to be done.I plunged my arm deep into the sea of peanuts. The foam waterfall was immediate and overwhelming; think bathroom plumbing emergency. As the flood neared FEMA levels, I finally reached the car's bumper. I stopped, grimaced and prepared the family for the final tidal wave.It was worse than I predicted. I slowly lifted the metal roadster out of its battered coffin, and the packing peanuts poured into the house with avalanche force, also draining off every crevice of a toy car with WAY too many crevices.Our daughters squealed with laughter, my wife cupped her hands to her face, the dogs barked and the cat dove into this Heaven-sent feline playground.I continued to pull, adding to the flood and trying not to say the bad words on my tongue.It got worse. When the car finally surfaced in full, we noticed the steering wheel was missing. You guessed it! It was at the bottom of the box, which, incredibly, was still 75 percent full of peanuts. Thus I did what any desperate man would do for a cool car: I plunged headfirst into 3.75 feet of pink foam peanuts, legs kicking for balance. I found the steering wheel but I also added an additional 70 billion foam peanuts to our floor.The cat was elated.There really is no conclusive end to this story. That night, I spent another hour outside raking peanuts back into the box in the dark, only to realized they were leaking out through a hole on the other side. Thousands of peanuts are still in a container near our trash can; we throw some out a little at a time and also give some away to people who actually want these cursed monkey paws.Each day, I find more foam bits in unexpected corners. I pick them, put them in the trash and then see more clusters in another corner. It is a losing battle, and it's truly depressing.In such low times, though, I find solace in one simple thought: Perhaps it is time for a very special road trip.I smile.Oklahoma would be nice.Contact Dave Schlenker at go@starbanner.com.